Too Many Miles Between Us
by SerendipityDreamer
Summary: "The scariest thing about distance is that you don't know whether they'll miss you or forget you." ― Nicholas Sparks, The Notebook


"And how's being dead, then?"

"You act as if I enjoy this, Molly."

Molly Hooper blushed slightly as she sat curled up on her grandmother's old sofa with a woolen blanket settled over her lap and a warm mug of drinking chocolate nestled in her hand. She shifted to press her phone between her shoulder and her ear as she took a long sip of her drink.

Sherlock Holmes had been dead for seven months, 16 days, and four hours, but Molly Hooper certainly wasn't counting. She had been a catalyst in his death, helping Sherlock pull off the hoax of the century that no one would even know about for some years to come. Molly assumed Sherlock would simply disappear, talking to no one except his brother for however long he needed to be away from London, destroying the silken threads of Moriarty's criminal web, and she was fine with that. Molly Hooper may have been important, but she had done her part and Sherlock wouldn't need her anymore. He would forget her and the world would keep on turning on its axis.

But apparently Sherlock did need her. He had taken to calling her on odd days during the month, at least once a week, and at increasingly peculiar hours. She had been awoken by her phone at two in the morning once, and Sherlock apologized (Yes, _apologized_.) as he was not yet accustomed to the timezones. He would call her with numerous inquiries and random thoughts, and very rarely he called merely to hear a voice. She would never admit it, and she had a feeling she didn't need to, but there was nothing more she enjoyed than talking to Sherlock Holmes.

Molly set her mug back in her lap and shifted her phone back into her hand and held it next to her ear, "Where are you now then? I'm sure it can't be too insufferable."

Sherlock hummed absentmindedly before answering, as if trying to decide if the place he was in was insufferable, "Singapore. It's not so horrid, I suppose, but my Malay isn't very good. I believe I called someone a fetus earlier today."

Molly laughed wholeheartedly, clutching her mug as to make sure it didn't spill over even as her body shook. She liked to think that as she laughed, Sherlock smiled and the corners of his eyes crinkled the way they did when he was genuinely happy.

"She slapped me," Sherlock continued, seemingly disinterested, "I suppose no one would take well to being called an unborn and underdeveloped embryo."

Once Molly recovered from her fit of giggles, she replied, her voice at a slightly higher pitch, "It's just such an odd thing. How on Earth did you happen to know the word for 'fetus' above all other things?"

"Does it matter? I'm leaving tomorrow anyway," Sherlock huffed. Molly could hear the clattering of dishes, as if Sherlock was cleaning up a meal. She wondered briefly if he was actually staying in a flat this time. When he was in Russia a few months ago, Sherlock had taken to living within his Homeless Network. She had gotten only two calls over a span of three months, and it was quite terrifying to think Sherlock had actually died.

"Where are you going to be tomorrow, then?" Molly asked, biting her lip nervously, "If you can't tell me, that's fine. Just thought I'd ask."

"Some small country town in Italy, a minor detail," Sherlock mused, the sound of a running faucet humming idly in the background, "I'm meant to spend a month posing as a farm hand. My brother must think he's smart, but I'm not spending more than two weeks sweltering in the sun."

Molly laughed softly once more, "Oh come on, it can't be too bad. Italy is romantic, especially the countryside. There aren't many people, and the sunsets are probably beautiful. I've always wanted to go."

"I've never been one for sunsets," Sherlock replied. He trailed off there, the other line becoming utterly silent. Molly wondered if perhaps he'd hung up, bored with their conversation, when he suddenly spoke again, "I could take you one day, if you like."

"Excuse me?" If Molly had sounded appalled, she never meant to. It was only that Sherlock Holmes, the gorgeous horrible bastard that he was, had just invited her on a vacation to Italy, a possibly romantic one at that.

Sherlock paused once more, obviously regretting his decision, "If it bothers you, forget I mentioned it."

"No, it's not that," Molly sputtered, "I just...do you mean for your invitation to be taken the way I'm hearing it? As something romantic?"

Molly could practically feel the smirk that grew on Sherlock's face, "I'm not sure what these phone calls have meant to you, Molly Hooper, but I rather enjoy your presence, and after a few weeks in Paris, the idea of romance has grown on me."

"Sherlock," Molly breathed, her face flushing and her body warming in a way that had nothing to do with the blanket on her lap or the drinking chocolate in her hands. Sherlock Holmes had asked her out on what was quite possibly a date, and he was thousands of kilometers away and supposed to be dead. Why couldn't he have said such things when he was alive and well in London?

They stayed like that, paused in that precious moment of time, when a door slammed on Sherlock's end and the man swore beneath his breath, "I must be going, my next directive is coming in. I'll keep in touch."

The line went dead before Molly could answer. That's how it always worked, because Sherlock was on burner phones anyway. He ended the call when he needed to leave and he would call back once he was in relative safety. And even though he would never hear it, Molly took comfort in whispering into her receiver, "I miss you, too."


End file.
